It is Spring, but my days are getting shorter, because I often sleep through chunks of them. Up I get, walk the giant dogs, feed them, have brekkers, read the papers, turn the computer on, glare at it, try to work, but it's no good. It's nearly lunch time, and I'm already done for and need a little kip. I plod on till 2 or 3, in a dull way, but why bother? This is the trouble with working at home. Just a few steps away is a heavenly bed or sofa, telly and hot water bottle, and if one is a bit stuck for an idea, then zzzzzz ...

Fielding's days are dribbling away just like mine. He lies down with his cup of tea and the sports pages – his favourite treat - head on three cushions, legs up on one, starts reading, then zzzz ... he wakes up with the paper open, face stuck to it with a dribble of saliva, dusk falling, another day wasted. I know it's meant to be a normal sleep pattern, siestas are natural, famous people have a brisk sleep in the afternoons, and Fielding would like to call it power napping, but he can't. It's beyond his control and does nothing to revive his cognitive abilities, he feels like a slug afterwards and can almost taste the newsprint.

Anyway, power naps should last only twenty minutes, and how are we meant to regulate them? Suppose I struggle on with work until five, then repair exhausted to the sofa to watch War Zone, which to me is like lettuce to the Flopsy Bunnies, but I still can't tell exactly when I'll conk out, so I can't estimate when to set the alarm. I might sleep two whole hours, then be unable to sleep at night, which is what happens to poor Fielding. The naps just turn his sleep cycle upside down, so that he's struggling to sleep all night, battling with existential dread, and fighting off sleep all day, because he doesn't dread things when it's light. And how am I to end this? I have only three words left. So difficult ... zzz ...